


Chicken Soup For The Mortal Soul

by tinknevertalks



Series: Nikola Tesla: The Mortal Drama Queen [5]
Category: Sanctuary (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Mortal Nikola Tesla, Self-Indulgent, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-18
Updated: 2018-03-18
Packaged: 2019-04-04 03:41:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14011395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tinknevertalks/pseuds/tinknevertalks
Summary: Being ill is never fun.





	Chicken Soup For The Mortal Soul

**Author's Note:**

> So back in early February I caught a cold (one bad enough that I still have people asking if I'm better) and I'd been resistant to writing ill!mortal!Nikola... Until that cold. Then I knew I needed someone to share my misery.This is that story.
> 
> My biggest thanks to Rinari for taking my fever induced rambles and making them coherent. Thank you darling, you are a wonder! :D

Helen knew what this was before her first sneeze. Sighing, she pushed herself (physically and metaphorically) out of bed, every muscle and joint aching. How did this happen? How could she have caught a cold? Stumbling, zombie-like, to her bathroom, she recoiled at the bright lights surrounding the mirror, and at her own limp, pallid reflection staring back, bleary eyed. Shaking her head, she went through her morning routine.

Taking her time in the shower, Helen could feel the steamy atmosphere clearing her congested sinuses. Breathing easier, feeling much more human, she walked back into her room, pausing for a second on seeing Nikola face down on her bed. Fleetingly, she was glad she’d decided to wear a robe. “Nikola! What on Earth?”

“I’m dying, Helen,” he groaned into the duvet. “My nose hurts. My head hurts. My everything hurts and I don’t feel well.”

She rolled her eyes, and walked to her closet. Not really wanting to wear her usual office fare, she eyed her more relaxed clothes, knowing lazing around in her bathrobe was not an option (not that she made a habit of it to begin with), especially if Nikola had decided to camp out with her. Grabbing what she wanted (so wonderfully soft and warm), she started getting dressed, keeping her robe on for as long as possible. “It’s a cold, Nikola. It’ll pass.”

“I have a pillow in my brain and my nose doesn’t work. I’m dying,” he repeated, rolling onto his side, looking up mournfully at a partially dressed Helen. He was about to say something when his face contorted and he sneezed, twice. She grimaced, echoing his expression. “Yuck. Can I…?”

She nodded, pointing to the door she had used minutes before. Stumbling slightly, he made it to her bathroom. As he washed his hands, Helen finished dressing before grabbing herself a handkerchief and sneezing.

“You! It’s your fault!” he declared, having heard her over the water of the tap.

“Oh hush Nikola, it was just a sneeze,” she told him, sitting on her bed, tired already. “If anything, this is your fault.”

He collapsed next to her, looking despondently up at the canopy. “Yours, mine, there’s no fault.”

Helen laughed derisively before rubbing her head. “Come on, staying here feeling sorry for ourselves won’t make us feel better.” She stood up and brushed down her waist. “A bit of breakfast will perk us up.”

Rolling over, he groaned into her duvet again. “My throat hurts.”

“Tea then,” she replied, touching his elbow. “Come on.”

\---

In the kitchen, Nikola suddenly found an appetite when he smelt the chicken noodle soup the Big Guy had simmering. Biggie smacked his hand away more than once, as he tried to sneak a spoonful (or three) when Biggie’s back was turned.

Helen smiled gratefully at him, as he gave them each a large bowl, full of the marvelous concoction. “Thank you, old friend. I imagine it smells wonderful.”

Biggie grunted a few times. “Henry’s been complaining of a headache.”

Nikola groaned as Biggie left the kitchen. “Should’ve known it was his fault.”

Rolling her eyes, she put down her spoon. “Stop laying blame on everyone. Your immune system--” She sneezed, turning away from the table, “-- is finally being battered by something that isn’t--” a small coughing fit “--a vaccine. Give it… time to work…” The words were pants by the end; Nikola’s constant complaints, and her own throbbing headache, battered her usual patience thin.

Nikola looked penitently into his soup. The various injections of different viruses those many months ago had hurt, and he had been laid up in bed for a week afterward. She felt the fight leave her system. “Please,” she said, her tone much more gentle, “we’re both unwell. The sooner we eat this, the sooner we’ll feel better.”

His lip curled and Helen was once again transported to that week after his vaccinations, as weak as a kitten, and just as in need of constant reassurance. “Promise?”

She smiled and touched his hand. Squeezing his fingers, she said, “It’s not an instant fix, but Henry and Kate swear by it.”

\--

_Later that afternoon..._

Even though everything ached (her head mostly), Helen got all the paperwork for the day done. She doubted she’d remember much of anything she read and signed off, but they’d be there to review when she felt better.

Curled into a corner of her sofa, closer to the fire than to her, Nikola was nominally reading a book. However, his eyes had been closed for the last twenty minutes, lulled to sleep by the ticking of her clock, the crackle of the fire and the painkillers she’d forced him to ingest after their shared lunch. She couldn’t help but smile at the innocence of the image, even if his congested snores were grating on her last nerve. Quietly, she opened the camera on her phone, glad she’d put it on silent after lunch (the incessant beeps were just as bad as Nikola’s snores). A tap, and the perfect picture of him asleep was saved. Knowing how his mortality now greatly diminished their time together, she wanted, in some mad fit of future nostalgia, to have this image of him - rumpled, imperfect, and utterly at peace in her presence. She didn’t have anywhere near enough photos of James or Nigel, and smiling at the image on the screen, she wasn’t going to pass up this one.

Sighing contentedly, she drank her tea. Grimacing at the temperature (two degrees above frozen - how long had she been working?) and the ache at the top of her throat as she swallowed, she pondered her next move. Logically, she knew she had to do something constructive but the sofa looked so comfortable. And she had just done a lot of office work…

Nikola shivered in his sleep, and turned his face toward the fire. Mind made up, Helen got up from her desk, grabbed a blanket and some cushions from the hollow section of the window seat, then curled up next to him.

\--

The breath across her brow awoke her with a start. Reaching for her gun, she wasn’t expecting an arm in her palm. Rubbing her eyes, she asked, “What?”

“Someone brought food,” Nikola murmured dozily. Somehow, don’t ask her how, they’d shifted from sitting side by side to lying down on the sofa, their legs intertwined, his arm as a pillow as the blanket she’d grabbed earlier covered them. Looking into his eyes, Helen furrowed her brow.

“Surely we weren’t sleeping that long?” she asked, leaning backwards just a touch to talk (and to not be so close in case she decided to kiss her confusion away).

He shrugged before grimacing again. “My throat still hurts.”

She nodded. There were so many things she could say in reply, her eyes darting down to his neck ( _that bobbing Adam’s apple I could kiss better_ ) before glancing at his nose, still bright red. “You’re also still congested.” Safe. Sighing, she added, “As am I.”

Peering over her head, he grinned toothily at her. “Whoever it was left your butler’s soup,” he said, in concert with his stomach rumbling.

It was a rumble she felt in her own stomach, plastered as she was against him, the arm that had been a pillow now curling around her shoulders. “Then maybe we should eat?” Whose throaty voice was that? And what on Earth was she doing, stroking his forearm like that?

He was looking into her eyes and she could feel (though never admit to) the precursive swoop of a swoon, although that could’ve been because of how he looked at her ( _resist temptation_ ) or the massive headache banging in her temples. As it was, she watched as Nikola’s slowly dawning expression turned panicked in a breath as he unwound himself from her and sneezed, twice, into his hand. She, in the process, had been unceremoniously dumped on the floor. _That’ll stop the swooning_.

“Helen!”

“Hands, Nikola,” she said, rubbing her lower back. He looked down then nodded. “Go on,” she added, “I’ll pour the tea.” Watching as he dashed out, that silly, indulgent feeling overtook her before a coughing fit wracked her body.

He really did look adorable, in a rumpled ex-vampire with a cold sort of way, and the sleep mussed hair and shirt just added to the whole… Oh, who was she kidding? Even sick she wanted him in her bed. Groaning, she poured two cups of tea, watching steam unfurl languidly from the dark liquid before adding honey and lemon.

“What did the tea do?” he asked, entering her office again and closing the door with a resolute _click_.

Closing her eyes, she shook her head to clear away her thoughts. “Nothing,” she answered, before picking up her cup and sipping, so very aware of his gaze. He didn’t need to know where her thoughts had gone, even if he’d welcome it, so she made sure she looked anywhere but at him, knowing he’d recognise her expression. Distractedly, she brought her fingers to her temples and rubbed small circles to ease the tension there. With her eyes closed she didn’t see him move, but his warmth behind her, his fingers taking over, made her want to melt against him, to be cradled in his arms. “Nikola?” she asked, a note of warning in her tone.

“Helen?” he replied, a thread of warm concern weaving through her name as he rubbed her temples.

“What are you doing?” she whispered, her body giving in and melting against his shoulder.

He laughed softly (the sound mutating to a slight cough by the end), making her hair dance. “Helping. I can stop, if you'd like.”

“I never said that,” she said, burrowing closer to his warmth. “Nikola?”

He tried to hum an acknowledgement - she felt the intake of breath - but his blocked nose stymied him. “Yes?” he finally sighed.

“I’m not feeling well.”

A log moved in the fireplace, the sound surprising Nikola enough to still his hand. Instantly, the headache that had dulled returned full force, making her wilt. His fingers returned to their ministrations. “You don’t say...”

She tried to hum, her head still against his shoulder, but her nose wouldn’t cooperate. Groaning from relief, she clung to the arm Nikola had anchored around her waist. “That feels wonderful,” she murmured to his chest, the small circular pressure quieting the throb in her head.

“I know something else that feels wonderful,” he said.

“I bet you do,” she snarked softly, grinning when she felt his smirk. “This is…” She sighed sleepily, curling closer to him, her cheek against his collarbone, her nose nuzzling his pulse point in his neck until her stomach rumbled. “I _am_ hungry…” She opened her eyes, flicking a glance to the table before returning to look at the bobbing Adam’s apple before her eyes. Without conscious thought, she leant forward, licking the stubbly skin.

The arm around her waist tightened, spurring on her need to taste him. He swallowed hard against the onslaught of her mouth. Grinning, she kissed her way to his ear as he gasped her name, his fingers squeezing her waist. “Don’t tease,” he begged as she nibbled his ear.

Or tried to. His hair, spikier than usual after their unintended nap, tickled her nose in the worst way, making her sneeze. She was thankful just to move her hand and head in time - being covered in snot was neither of their idea of fun - although she was pretty sure she hit him in the process of covering her nose.

“Ow! I said don’t tease, not elbow me please,” Nikola complained, holding his cheek. “I don’t heal like I used to.”

Helen rolled her eyes, not moving the hand from in front of her face ( _where is my bloody handkerchief?_ ). “But your complaint making skills are still second to none.”

With the handle of a spoon and a twiddle of his fingers, he used his magnetic powers to give her the pretty hankie that had been lying on the sofa. Smiling (although he couldn’t see her lips), she accepted it, and turned away. “Ugh, I think I felt my brain move with that one,” she said quietly, nose momentarily unblocked. Resting against the sofa, she glanced toward her desk, looking for the hand sanitiser she knew wouldn’t be there. “I’ll be back in a moment.” Glancing at his cheek, she grimaced slightly. “I’ll get you some ice too.”

“Is it that bad?” he asked, touching his face gingerly.

She smiled. “Possibly not, but better safe than sorry.” She patted his other cheek, winking. Then, grinning, she got to her feet, and padded in her stocking feet to the door. “We best eat the soup too.”

“Yes, the way your appetite is, I’d’ve sworn you were the vampire. Tell me, when did you become fixated on my neck?”

Licking her lips, Helen held his gaze and raised her eyebrow, smiling mysteriously all the while. When his eyes widened, she opened the door, and called, “Drink your tea. It’s good for your throat.”

\--

Soup eaten, tea drunk, they curled back up on the sofa, Nikola’s arms around Helen, her legs folded up beneath her. Every so often, he’d stroke her shoulders and hair and the image would have been one of blissful domesticity if it wasn’t for the coughing, the sneezing, and the tissues scattered all around. “My head hurts,” he muttered against her hair, yawning.

“It would, you have a cold.”

“As you keep reminding me.”

Helen would have replied but the door was opening and letting all the warmth out. She curled further into Nikola.

“Will? Is everything alright?” she asked, not moving from her warm spot, ignoring the disapproving look her protégé gave her.

He blinked and nodded, before walking from the door (left open) to her desk. “Uh, yeah. Just…” He held up a few files for a moment, wiggling them a bit, then dropped them on the polished surface. “You two… Feeling better?”

Nikola sneezed into a tissue as if on cue. The movement would have rocked Helen had she not sat up, blinking blearily at him. Gingerly, she shook her head.

“God damn nose,” Nikola muttered.

“You might want to go,” she said, grimacing a touch. “We’re still infectious.”

Will nodded, eyebrows raised as Helen coughed. “If you need anything…” he told her, moving back to the door. With a final nod from her, he left, and she turned to Nikola.

“You were unusually quiet…”

His head fell backwards as he groaned. “I’m ill, as you keep reminding me.”

“Possibly worse than I thought, as you didn’t terrorise my staff,” she replied, worried at his unusual civility.

Nikola sneered, “Please, I could terrorise them all with a hand tied behind my back.”

The look she gave him was shrewd. “But not with a cold, obviously.”

Deflating, his head lolled against the back of the sofa. “My throat hurts.”

Looking at the clock on the mantelpiece, she nodded. “Time you go to bed.” Tapping his chest, she almost laughed when he pouted at her.

“But I’m not tired. Unless--”

“No,” she interrupted, narrowing her eyes at his lecherous leer. “You are going to bed. Doctor’s orders.” Softening, sighing as she fully untangled herself, she smiled at him. “You’ll feel better in the morning.”

He rolled his eyes and shook his head, the pout intensifying. “You keep saying that.”

“Saying what?” she asked, stretching, feeling a wave of lassitude roll through her.

“You’ll feel better.”

Turning to face him, she shook her head and shrugged. “You will feel better.” Standing, grimacing at the tea service and empty bowls, she turned for the door, stopping momentarily at her desk. “It's only a cold.”

He was following her out the door, and for someone with a sore throat his complaints were quite audible. For half a moment Helen considered shooting ( _kissing_ ) him before discarding the idea. His mortality now put paid to that idea ( _as does the snotty nose_ ).

By the time they were stood at the lift, he had his head on her shoulder, a moment of weakness she knew he’d deny to any who’d ask. “I think I will go to bed,” he finally conceded as the doors opened. “I’ll dream of you though,” he muttered, saccharine sweet. Or it would have, had his words not sounded so congested.

They walked into the lift side by side. “I’ll check up on you in the morning,” she told him, ignoring his comment, holding her hand to his forehead as if she’d done it countless times before. Close, skin on (slightly clammy) skin, she quirked a half smile that echoed on his face. Kissing his cheek, she exited the lift and walked to her room alone. Had she not, they’d be playing doctors until morning, regardless of their energy levels.

_And really, who wants to do that with a cold?_


End file.
